


Adoration Game

by Windian



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 06:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: After Adora leaves the Horde, Catra struggles with sleeping alone.





	Adoration Game

 

Adora was always the pretty one.

She was the talented one.

The one who _actually listened_ \-- so Shadow Weaver purportedly claimed.

And yet the two of you had been abandoned together. That was your earliest memory: of holding Adora's hand.

Adora made you furious, with her damned lack of imperfection, how she could get away with _anything_ , the same anything Shadow Weaver would beat you black and blue for.

And yet: she was always there. A constant in your world. Since the Horde found you both in the Whispering Woods, crying and clinging to one another.

That had to be it. There could be no other reason why your heart hurt so.

 

You can't sleep.

You prowl the corridors of the facility, tail sweeping angrily behind you. The fluorescent lights, too bright, too loud. Another night spent thrashing out underneath the covers, unable to get comfortable. You haven't slept alone since-- ever, actually.

Kyle kicks you out of his bed with a squawk when he wakes to finds you curled up by his feet.

“Catra! What are you doing?”

“I-- I didn't realise it was your bed, OK! I was tired. Why would I want to sleep next to _you_?”

You stalk away, leaving Kyle opened mouthed and wide awake, stuttering apologies.

 _Good_ , you think.

 

“Hey, Catra, you're still up?”

Scorpia sits in the communal room, playing cards-- apparently against herself.

She also appears to be losing, which is impressive.

You've noticed that she too, spends much of her time alone.

“Can't sleep.”

You pull up a chair, straddle it backwards.

“Must feel weird having your own room after sharing with all those cadets, huh?” Scorpia says.

“Something like that.”

“Man, it was worth making Force Captain just to not to deal with the snoring anymore, though,” she says.

You snort. Rest your chin against the backs of your hands. “You're not wrong there. Adora would always--” you catch yourself, swallow, but not before Scorpia has taken notice, peering at you over a clawful of cards.

She keeps her voice light and airy. Or possibly; she just completely lacks the ability to be serious. “Well, if you ever get lonely, you're welcome to bunk with me," she says cheerfully.

“Sure, when the Whispering Woods freezes over,” you retort, which to anyone else would be absolutely _crushing_ , yet Scorpia only laughs.

“Okay, okay. Fancy a game of Go Fish?”

“I'm good, thanks,” you say, deadpan, as you swing your leg over the chair, and get the hell out of there before Scorpia tries again to be _nice_. Ugh.

You try very hard not to think of Adora. How often you'd curl up at the end of her bed, and yet awake in a cat's cradle of tangled limbs anyway. The smell of her hair. How she muttered in her sleep. How she stroked your wrists with the softest brush of her thumb, and neither of you ever spoke of it.

Now, there was nothing to speak of.

 

You find a nice snug spot, up in the air vent, and wrap yourself in your solitude. What is it about small spaces that makes them so comforting?

You listen to the thrum of the generator, the rhythmic drip of a leaky tap.

When you were smaller, you would hide here sometimes, to escape Shadow Weaver's ire.

Adora found you. Adora always found you.

“You know she doesn’t mean it,” Adora would say, voice echoing down the vent.

_Worthless. Stupid. Hopeless._

“Right _.”_

“She can be nice sometimes, too.”

“Sure,” you reply. To Adora, perhaps.

Adora squeezes your hands, tight. Her wrists jangle-- a bright shiny bauble Shadow Weaver had given her for-- something. Passing a test, probably.  “I'll talk to her. She'll calm down.”

She'd listen to Adora: bright, gold Adora, who could do no wrong. A shadow passes over your heart, and you squeeze her hands-- too tight.

“Ow! Catra, you're...”

You've drawn blood, you notice, with a vicious relish.

It quickly passes. Your throat closes up. “Sorry! Sorry, Adora.”

“It's OK,” says Adora, licking the bright blot of blood on her palm away. Her voice resonates down the vent: “Kiss it better?”

You press a kiss to her hand. Somehow, something about that echoes, too.

 

You kick out, hard, against the metal panelling of the vent, with enough force to dent it. The anger feels good. A hot rush in your veins, cauterizing your wounds.

It resonates still: the feeling of her hand in yours, as though imprinted into your skin.

Adora's gone; she's abandoned you, and yet you can't escape her.

 

 

 


End file.
